


Deadly Sins

by HenryMercury



Series: Deadly Sins [1]
Category: Killing Eve (TV 2018)
Genre: (hell of a tag but it's not inapplicable so), Bisexual Gemma, Drinking, F/F, Fisting, Gemillaneve, Handcuffs, Jealousy, Light Dom/sub, Multi, Public Sex, Sex Toys, Strap-Ons, Threesome - F/F/F, Top Eve Polastri, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-23
Updated: 2020-09-23
Packaged: 2021-03-07 22:29:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,309
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26615254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HenryMercury/pseuds/HenryMercury
Summary: Sin with me on twitter @hhhenrymercury
Relationships: Gemma/Eve Polastri/Villanelle | Oksana Astankova
Series: Deadly Sins [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1945441
Comments: 12
Kudos: 79





	Deadly Sins

**Author's Note:**

  * For [imunbreakabledude](https://archiveofourown.org/users/imunbreakabledude/gifts).



  * 1



Two healthy glasses of pinot and Gemma is in full-blown bisexual disaster mode.

It’s the usual story: girl meets boy, girl falls for boy. Boy is married, not that it stops girl from wanting. One day boy’s wife shows up—and is even hotter than boy is. Girl blurts out, “ _Wow_. Are you _actually_ an astronaut? Because you look _out of this world_ ,” then turns and legs it out of the hall for a panic cig or four.

You know. The usual.

Kim, the woman who joins her in the stairwell, is nice. She’s beautiful too (the bone structure alone is quite upsetting) but her friendly art-teacher look takes the edge off it. Unlike Eve’s tight dress. Eve is _all_ edges in that dress.

“I like your necklace,” Gemma tells Kim. The necklace is made of glittery pasta.

Kim looks genuinely pleased. “Thank you,” she replies. Drags again on her bummed cigarette. “Want to play a game?”

 _Why not_ , thinks Gemma. “Sure.”

“Shag, marry, kill: the maths teacher with the moustache, his wife, and me.”

Gemma stares. Wonders how Niko’s remained oblivious if her feelings are so obvious that a complete stranger feels so able to comment on them. Her restless hands tap ash from the end of the cig and it falls onto her knee, jolting her back into the moment.

She gives a little laugh. “Uh, well. If I _had_ to pick I’d marry Niko. He’s a really good guy. And Eve is like _supermodel_ gorgeous—I’d so shag her—which leaves… sorry.”

Kim laughs, mock clutching at her heart. “No,” she cries out. “But I am so beautiful!”

Gemma shrugs helplessly. “You are! It’s just—”

“I understand; Eve is _so_ sexy. I would choose to marry her. Kill the moustache. Which leaves…” Kim leans back (when did she get so close to Gemma in the first place?) to give her a comically shameless onceover. Hair, lips, tits, hands, tits again.

“Ha, lucky me,” Gemma giggles. Even if it’s just a joke, she can feel her cheeks getting hot. It’s nice, being noticed. Being found desirable.

“Lucky you,” Kim agrees. “Say, would you give me a bit of a tour of the classrooms? There’s a lot I haven’t seen yet, but it’d be so awkward poking around during the day when everyone’s here.”

The butt of Gemma’s last cigarette is all that remains. She drops it—and, while stomping it out against the linoleum, thinks about how she’s always tried to be the good girl; sweet and happy and _lovable_. She’s tried so, so hard, but always underachieved. Always watched from the middle ground as others got the things she wanted. Deeper and longer than the nicotine, envy’s been a habit she can’t kick.

Gemma doesn’t have the keys to the cupboards in the science lab, to Kim’s disappointment. The redhead is incredibly nosy, and Gemma’s not sure what she thinks she wants with some dilute hydrochloric acid anyway, but it’s kind of endearing how keen she is on exploring. It’s almost like she’s never seen the inside of an ordinary classroom before.

“What about the maths rooms?” Kim asks, when she’s examined all the slightly tatty safety signs on the lab’s far wall. “Could you show me those?”

Gemma doesn’t mind an excuse to snoop around Niko’s room.

“Wow,” Kim marvels at the giant Pythagoras poster. “Some people get really into their numbers, don’t they?”

“Niko’s very passionate.”

“Just not about you?”

Gemma feels that one like a physical blow. Right there, under the left boob.

“Oh sorry,” Kim adds, “I just meant—well, I’ve never understood the point of men if they aren’t easy. Convenient. Isn’t that the whole advantage of them? Their ready availability?”

“I don’t know what you mean.” Gemma frowns. “Men are people too.”

Kim appears to ponder this for a moment, then changes the subject: “I have a confession,” she says, and seats herself on one of the desks, swinging her legs almost childishly where they hang over the edge.

“Oh?”

“I don’t really have an accent.” Kim’s voice just _drops away_ , and it takes Gemma a moment to process that she’s hearing a smooth Russian accent now, instead of Kim’s higher-pitched British inflection. “And I don’t really work here.” Russian-Kim’s face twists into a sort of wide-eyed smirk, as if she’s shocked by her own cheekiness.

“Then why…?” Gemma trails off as Kim moves towards her—practically stalking forward like a big cat, eyes and teeth flashing. She’s like a whole different person, and Gemma… well, Gemma’s fast forgetting the cooling-off effect the sparkly pasta necklace had on her out in the stairwell. “It sounds like you shouldn’t be here,” she says, hearing her own voice waver. With fear? Maybe, in part.

Kim shrugs, a fluid motion that doesn’t slow her stride at all. Gemma’s back hits the whiteboard mounted on the room’s front wall, the pen tray along the bottom poking into her lower back—and still Kim advances, right into Gemma’s space.

“Let’s say,” Kim purrs, “I found out about this event from Eve, who I know from… work. I heard there would be an open bar, and I couldn’t resist.”

“Oh.” It’s not terribly articulate for an English teacher, is it—but can Gemma really be expected to manage any more when her cute new friend has all but _transformed_ into a hot, scary intruder and is standing close enough that she can feel their breath ghosting over her lips?

She realises she’s leaning in, magnetically drawn towards Kim’s mouth, mind awash with a nebulous awareness of the game they’d played. The woman’s apparent willingness to select Gemma for a shag.

This is when the classroom door opens. Voices—which, if they were audible from outside, Gemma failed to notice. One is Niko’s; the other, dark and playful, must be Eve’s.

“I think we’re interrupting something,” Niko tells his wife.

“What? Oh—”

“Hi Eve,” says Kim, tone honeyed. Gemma is faced with her perfectly smooth cheek as she looks to the door.

“Villanelle?” Eve gasps. Gemma doesn’t think she sounds too pleased to see Kim, but maybe it’s just the surprise of seeing her here with Gemma. “Oh god, why are you— get away from her. You can’t—”

“Kiss a woman? I didn’t know you were so homophobic, Eve. I’m _very_ disappointed.” Kim—or, possibly, Villanelle?—leans in, this time, and plants her mouth right on Gemma’s. She tastes like the cigarettes they just smoked. A bit sweet, too, as though she’s eaten an apple recently.

“You know that’s not what I mean!”

Gemma registers that, in the background, Eve is almost yelling. She’s inexplicably worked up—almost like she’s jealous. Gemma wonders whether Niko is jealous too. She presses into the kiss, tilts her head as Villanelle’s tongue and teeth toy expertly with her lips. Sighs at the sensations of small but surprisingly strong hands gripping her forearms and soft breasts against her own.

“That’s— _her?_ What is she doing _here? Eve?_ You should call your people, or the police, or—” It’s Niko’s raised voice that snaps Gemma back to the reality of the scene.

She freezes, and then Villanelle is stepping away, turning to face the couple in the door again. Gemma feels cold and exposed.

“What’s got you so worked up?” Gemma directs the question at Niko, whose eyes are wide, and whose mouth has well and truly disappeared behind his moustache. He looks pale, scared. “Is something wrong?”

Eve and Villanelle appear to be having their own wordless conversation. From what Gemma can see it’s mostly glares on Eve’s part, shrugs on Villanelle’s. “Outside,” Eve concludes. “Now.”

The part of Gemma still humming with post-kiss excitement begins to follow before she can convince it the order is for Villanelle, not for her. Eve is wild and stern at once; eyes burning cold and voice husky-sharp. Gemma would probably do anything she asked.

“Not you,” snaps Eve, pointing at Gemma.

Niko’s discomfort has begun to sour into reservation. Eve shows no signs of noticing as he follows her back out of the room.

Before she goes, Villanelle gives Gemma a smile. Gemma may not understand the drama that’s unfolded, but she can see easily enough that Villanelle’s enjoying it. From the teacher’s desk, Villanelle swipes a pen and a post-it note. She offers them to Gemma.

“Write your number,” she says happily. “I think there is some real potential between us.”

  * 2



“She’s an assassin,” Eve says, lowering her voice carefully. They’re tucked away in a booth at a café around the corner from St Theobald’s—but Eve hasn’t taken a long lunch to come and eat with Niko.

Gemma stares back at her from across the laminate tabletop. Reaches into one of the chip baskets and brings a small handful of soft, deep-fried potato to her mouth without ever looking away.

“Are you hearing me?” Eve presses. She shouldn’t be saying even this much, but she’ll do what she has to to stop Villanelle’s choking roots growing deeper into her home life. Niko’s life. “She kills people for a living. Believe me when I say you want _nothing_ to do with her.”

“She said she knew you from work,” says Gemma. She looks a bit wary, but only as much as she has done since Eve marched into the staffroom and demanded a lunch date. Meeting. Whatever this is.

“My work involves _investigating her_. I can’t tell you anything else; it’s classified.”

“Wow.” Breathy and fascinated, it’s not the response Eve expects. It’s the kind of reaction _she_ might have if someone implied they were be a spy. But Gemma isn’t Eve. Eve is built differently; Gemma is as basic as basic can be.

“No, it’s not _wow_ , it’s dangerous.”

“But you must think it’s interesting,” Gemma points out.

“I do—but I’m equipped to handle it. I need you to tell me _immediately_ if she contacts you again. I doubt she will, but—” Eve stops.

Gemma is _rolling her eyes_ with an audacity Eve completely did not expect from her.

“I’m meeting her tomorrow night,” says Gemma. “We’re going to dress up and drink suggestively-named cocktails. I’ll let you know if she tries to strangle me, or anything.”

“You,” Eve repeats, just trying to get it straight, “have a date. With Villanelle.”

“Yes. Tomorrow. _Me_.”

“Where?”

“A hotel bar.”

“Which hotel?”

Gemma crosses her arms. The tops of her breasts press together, rising out of her floral wrap dress’ V neckline. “Do you want to know what I think?” she asks Eve (who doesn’t, if she’s honest). “I don’t think you’re worried about me at all. I think you’re just jealous. Jealous that she’s noticed _me_.”

Eve scowls. If this is how Gemma wants to play it, then she’ll stop pulling punches. “You can’t even comprehend the type of person Villanelle is. Stick to marking essays about Jane Austen.”

“Maybe you should stop giving romantic advice and put some effort into your actual _marriage_ ,” Gemma bites. Eve is almost impressed by the way the comment stings her. “Poor Niko is so in love with you, but do you ever show up for him? Ever swallow your pride to do something that’s about him, instead of yourself?”

“If you’d ever been married, maybe you’d understand.”

Gemma fiddles with the press studs on her tan suede handbag, closing it up and getting to her feet. “I’m going to go. Get that marking out of the way so I’ll have the whole night free tomorrow. See you around, Eve.”

And just like that Eve finds herself watching the woman walk away. Her compact strides, the sway of her generous hips, the way she turns to smile at and gush her thanks to the barista behind the counter despite the fact their orders are still on the way—none of it suggests the curiously hard centre Eve’s just sunk her teeth into. The stone inside the peach.

Eve lingers another ten minutes or so, sipping her long black when it arrives. She’s left with the bill, a soy chai latte she doesn’t want, and the terrible knowledge that she’s still going to be thinking about Gemma fucking Pierson as she tries to fall asleep tonight.

  * 3



There’s something dark and covetous inside Gemma. That’s the second thing Villanelle noticed, after the connection to Eve. (Maybe the third, after the tits.) Even so, she’s been more interesting to talk to than Villanelle expected. She’s less suspicious than Eve, so it’s less cat-and-mouse, more lamb-to-the-slaughter. She comes so willingly, though—like she’s just been waiting for someone to give her the attention required to corrupt.

“A cheese plate, and Sex on the Beach, please,” Gemma tells the bartender, who’s an older, not unattractive man with a quirky manner and career-level expertise for his craft.

“Anything else?”

“Two wet pussy shots and a dirty martini. Your best vodka,” adds Villanelle, putting her card down on the counter. Her heavy gold watch and embossed V cufflinks by Versace flash on her bared wrist. “We are going to sit over there,” she gestures toward the window. “You can bring them to us.”

He will do what she asks. Everyone should, tonight. She’s wearing her hair twisted tightly against the back of her neck, a perfectly-tailored black pinstriped suit and a half-unbuttoned white dress shirt with elongated collar points, cutting a particularly authoritative (and expensive) figure.

Villanelle enjoys watching Gemma’s eyes flicker over the shiny black plastic. She’s attractive with or without money, of course, but she very much prefers to have it. The desirous responses it garners never get old. “On me,” she says, making direct eye contact.

A flush spreads across Gemma’s upper chest. She’s dressed surprisingly well in a knee-length red velvet sheath that sits just off her shoulders, a gradual cowl neck dipping across her cleavage. Her shoes are the cheap kind of strappy, but her lipstick has the patent sheen of a Bobbi Brown.

“Thank you,” says Gemma—gushing, but deliberate. “Let me know how I can repay you.”

Villanelle smirks, and promises: “I will.”

They sit at the small table Villanelle chose, their order following close behind them. The view from the top of this hotel isn’t as grand as she’s seen elsewhere; not as stylish as Paris or overwhelming as Tokyo for instance, where the skyscrapers of the city continue to the horizon and beyond, more blinking red aircraft lights and neon signs than stars. Likewise, her companion is no Eve—but both the city and the woman will do for tonight.

“So Eve was telling me what you do for work,” says Gemma, in such an ordinary tone it takes a moment for Villanelle to realise it isn’t small talk.

“Really?” she asks, picking up the cheese knife and twirling it deftly between her fingers before pushing it into the creamy French brie. “What did she say, exactly?”

Gemma lifts her cocktail and sucks on the straw. “Mostly that I shouldn’t go out with you,” she summarises. “That you were too _dangerous_ for someone like me.”

Villanelle is too dangerous for everybody, but it is less entertaining just to _say_ so.

“You came anyway.”

“I was… intrigued.”

“What if she was right about me?” Villanelle raises her eyebrows in a pantomime of shock and takes a sip of her martini. There is slightly too much brine in it. Disappointing.

Gemma shrugs. “I figured even if she was right about you, she was wrong about me.”

Villanelle doesn’t have to fake her surprise this time. “Interesting,” she murmurs. “You aren’t afraid, Gemma?”

Gemma glances away from Villanelle’s stare, out the window, but turns back fortified. “No,” she says. “Of course not. I’m sure Eve was exaggerating anyway…”

Villanelle shakes her head. The smile peels her lips back from her teeth. “She wasn’t.”

“Oh.”

“So what about now?”

“Huh?” Gemma is quite cute when flustered, Villanelle thinks. She’s so conflicted about it—stubbornly refusing to concede but unable to tamp down her emotions either.

In a swift movement, Villanelle picks up the chair beneath herself and swings around to land on Gemma’s side of the table.

“Are you afraid, now,” she clarifies, and sneaks a hand onto Gemma’s thigh, feeling it tense.

“Um—I guess so?” answers Gemma faintly.

Villanelle chuckles. Moves the hand on Gemma’s leg closer to the hem of her dress, hiked up to mid-thigh for ease of sitting down. Fingertips curl to dip beneath the velvet. The dress’ lining is cheap, but at least the outside texture is pleasant as her palm smooths over it.

Gemma _shivers_ when Villanelle leans _ever_ so slowly towards her ear and breathes: “And now?”

Quickening breaths are the only answer she gets, until she digs her blunt nails into bare flesh. A gasp—and a broken sigh. With her free hand, she combs the smooth curtain of Gemma’s hair back behind her ear.

The words hot against her neck, Villanelle says: “If you’re scared, you have an interesting way of showing it.”

“Should we,” Gemma stammers, “erm, move this somewhere more private?”

Villanelle pulls back and makes a show of looking around the bar. “Why? I don’t see anyone here who would complain. If you can stay quiet, that is. Can you do that, Gemma?”

“I’m not sure.”

“I suggest you figure it out sooner rather than later,” Villanelle lets her hand wander further, dragging the velvet until she can easily slip her hand between Gemma’s thighs.

Gemma chokes on a squeak, but quickly bites her tongue. Involuntarily, her legs squeeze closed—but before Villanelle can try to pry her fingers out, disappointed, Gemma undoes the reaction: her knees fall apart as far as the tight dress will let them. When she looks at Villanelle, it’s with a familiar expression—one that says she knows her fate is inevitable. Usually when people look at Villanelle this way it’s because she’s going to kill them, not finger them in public, but the parallel is aphrodisiac enough on its own.

With her left hand, Villanelle reaches for one of the wet pussy shots and holds it to her lips. In her right, Gemma’s cotton underwear are easily pulled aside. She knocks the shot back, tongue diving into the little glass to lick out the last drops of cranberry and peach. Gemma follows suit with the other shot, throat working to swallow the sweet alcohol. Villanelle chooses this moment to bury her middle finger fast and deep in the other woman’s cunt, watching the desperate widening of her eyes as she struggles not to react.

Villanelle doesn’t give her any time to collect herself. As quickly as the finger entered, she slips it back out, brushing teasingly over Gemma’s labia but skirting around her clit.

She’s more than wet enough for the two fingers Villanelle fucks into her next, setting a more sedate pace with her thrusts so she can cut and eat another slice of cheese. The Roquefort, this time. Subtly crumbly and veined with deep blue, it stands out against the strange grey crackers they’ve been given. Villanelle doesn’t understand why people put charcoal into everything nowadays.

Gemma’s hands clutch at her own knees. Her knuckles go white when Villanelle hooks her fingers. It’s a difficult angle for finding the g-spot, but she is practiced and precise.

“Would you like another?” Villanelle asks. She keeps her tone level, bordering on bored, like they’re talking about the cheese.

Gemma nods. Her eyes are watering. A whine bursts out of her, not badly disguised as an explosive laugh.

With three fingers stretching her, Gemma begins to really fall apart. She slumps forward, elbows knocking the table, flushed face in her hands. The heat around Villanelle closes in, hotter and slicker with every thrust and calculated press. Villanelle rubs the heel of her hand over Gemma’s clit and she’s away with a silent scream, eyes wide and beautifully helpless.

She cries: “Eve!”

Villanelle frowns, until she follows Gemma’s eyeline to a figure approaching their table. Frumpily-dressed with an aura of fury as captivatingly voluminous as her hair, is her favourite MI6 agent.

“Hi,” she says smugly, removing herself from Gemma’s still-fluttering cunt. In full view, she uses the nearest paper serviette to wipe the slick from between her fingers.

  * 4



When Gemma looks up again, Eve has disappeared. She’s almost convinced the woman was a figment of her post-orgasmic imagination when Eve shows up again, slamming an entire bottle of Beefeater Gin on the table, followed by a glass of ice and lemon wedges.

“What a lovely surprise, Eve. Please, sit down,” Villanelle says cordially. And smugly. Gemma’s buzzing with too many conflicting feelings to be mad about it right now. Maybe later.

“What are you doing here?” she asks. She assumes Eve hasn’t realised what was happening under the table, because the alternative is too mortifying. “Did you follow us?”

“No, I just checked all the hotel bars in this area,” Eve answers. Gemma can’t tell whether she’s joking or not. She does actually sound a bit out of breath.

Gemma is also a bit out of breath. She takes a drink, hiding behind the tall, curvy glass her Sex on the Beach came in. The yellow paper umbrella nearly takes her eye out.

“That is a really shitty gin,” Villanelle says, concerned, as Eve pours her stout tumbler full of it and proceeds to throw half the contents back with a wince.

“It doesn’t have to taste good. Just has to purge whatever I just witnessed from my memory forever,” Eve replies, then takes another determined gulp.

Oh, god. Gemma has to leave. She has to—

Two pairs of eyes bore into her, and she notices she’s sprung to her feet. “I’m just going to go die now; be right back,” she explains candidly, and rushes off in one direction before realising it’s a dead end and the loo is the other way.

She backtracks, joins the queue for the two available cubicles and eventually scores one. The excitement that’s been holding her body upright dissipates. She sits on the toilet, sagging, chin propped up on her arms and arms propped on her knees. There’s an obvious dark patch soaked through her pink underwear as they hang around her knees. It makes her feel so _dirty_ —a double-edged sensation that’s half shame and half arousal. Everyone keeps talking about how Villanelle is _dangerous_ , but the danger isn’t what convinced Gemma to have sex with her in a public place. She wasn’t threatened into it. Just tempted. So wrapped up in the very idea of sharing a moment with someone so flawlessly confident that thoughts like _I could lose my job if I’m caught doing this_ faded into the background. She should be angrier with herself than she is.

When she gets back to the table, Eve and Villanelle are locked in a stony staring competition across the table. Eve has a hand wrapped tightly around the handle of the cheese knife.

“Everything okay? Anyone want another drink? Something else to eat?” she asks, mostly to try and break the silence.

“Everything is great,” Villanelle answers amiably, but she doesn’t look away from Eve. Doesn’t blink. Her flashy smile doesn’t come anywhere close to her eyes. “Why don’t you order a bottle of wine? Get something good. They will just put it on my tab.”

The bartender recognises her as the guest of the one with the heavy-duty credit card. It’s a queue-skip the likes of which she’s never experienced, even as a big-breasted barely-dressed eighteen year old clubbing in the city. Gemma, who usually orders the house red, happily accepts the barman’s advice and walks away with a pinot noir that for all she knows costs hundreds of pounds. A waitress tails her with three tall red wine glasses on a tray.

“I’m not having any,” Eve holds up a hand when the girl tries to place one of the glasses in front of her.

“Oh! So sorry.”

“Eve, there is no need to be rude,” Villanelle chides, grinning charmingly at the waitress, then at Gemma. “Eve has decided to join us for a few more drinks.”

As if to illustrate, Eve drains another two-fingers’ worth of iced gin.

“Okay,” Gemma agrees, with no idea where any of this is going. She only hopes it continues to involve her.

“We’ve also decided that whatever happens tonight doesn’t count,” Villanelle continues. “Because it makes Eve feel better.”

“Fuck you,” Eve grunts, but doesn’t disagree.

“Anytime,” Villanelle sing-songs, sunnier than ever in the face of Eve’s thundercloud demeanour. “Hey Gemma, remember when you told me you wanted to fuck Eve?”

Eve’s attention snaps to Gemma, and for the first time there’s something more than anger in her eyes. Curiosity. Surprise.

“It was _shag, marry, kill_. The context is important.”

Villanelle leans conspiratorially towards Eve. “She chose to kill _me_ so she could make _you_ her shag. How does that make you feel, Eve?”

Eve drinks again, like she’s playing her own secret drinking game. “Confused? I thought you were after Niko.”

“She likes Niko too,” Villanelle volunteers. It ticks her off, actually; Gemma would really rather she’d left him out of this. “If you two ever want to spice things up in the bedroom, I’m sure she would be happy to help! A win-win, no?”

“I wouldn’t say that,” she interrupts, loudly enough that the others pause. “It was a stupid game—and we’re here now, Niko’s not, so it doesn’t matter.”

“Don’t be so angry; I was just trying to help,” Villanelle claims unconvincingly.

Eve and Gemma both snort, incredulous.

“You’d really rather sleep with me than her?” Eve asks—and even the faint hint of a smile that quirks her mouth is too endearing for Gemma to resist.

“Well, it isn’t that I _wouldn’t_ like to sleep with her…”

Eve laughs—a real laugh that _Gemma_ caused. “Oh believe me,” she says knowingly, “I noticed.”

Gemma’s face heats, but it’s in no part because she’s ashamed of being caught.

Villanelle picks the last of the cheese up between her fingers and pops it into her mouth. “Time to go, I think,” she says. “I have some really good vibrators at my hotel. Bring the wine.”

Gemma, who has just poured a full glass, makes to scull it. Amidst the whiplash of this whole interaction, that seems to be the simplest solution.

“Give me that,” Villanelle snatches up the glass and takes it with her as she strides right out of the place. No-one stops her.

Eve follows with her fist around the neck of her half-bottle of Beefeater, and Gemma trails after them both for better or worse.

  * 5



Eve doesn’t want to talk about whatever it is she’s doing right now. Jacket, shirt and trousers thrown on the floor, she watches a completely nude Gemma sip wine straight from the bottle. Watches Villanelle, who’s shed her jacket but is otherwise still dressed, lick into Gemma’s mouth like she’s trying to suck the tannins off her tongue.

Her head is still spinning at the reality of it all (and perhaps also from the cheap gin)—though other parts of her are reacting even more forcefully.

Villanelle pulls away from Gemma’s mouth and drags her lips leisurely down the woman’s neck. One hand bunches loosely in Gemma’s straight hair while the other comes up from beneath Gemma’s left breast to cup its curve and thumb across its nipple. The ache between Eve’s legs is so insistent that the next throb actually _hurts_.

 _What am I doing?_ A decidedly less pressing question than _Why am I not doing more right now._

She reaches behind her back to unhook her bra and lets it fall by her feet.

“Come over here, Eve,” Villanelle murmurs against Gemma’s collarbone, glancing at Eve out of the very corner of her eye as she bares her teeth and bites.

Gemma moans contentedly, tilting her head back and pushing her chest forward. Eve isn’t used to even this level of vocalisation during sex, and the noise goes right to her cunt in a way she doesn’t expect. The _power_ of extracting those helpless little noises from someone...

“You’re still dressed,” she says to Villanelle, unimpressed.

“I will happily strip off if you agree to take over here,” Villanelle bargains, gesturing towards Gemma right at tit height. “What do you think, Gemma—would you like Eve to touch you for a bit?”

Gemma doesn’t look at Eve. She’s nervous, Eve realises, that she might reject her—and isn’t _that_ heady.

“Well?” Eve demands. “Yes or no?”

“Yes please,” Gemma answers politely. “If you’d like.”

Villanelle extricates herself, leaving Eve to examine the body in front of her. Gemma’s eyes are wide and deep. Her physique is softer, more rounded than Villanelle’s forceful musculature or Eve’s angular frame. Her breasts are particularly incomprehensible, just sitting there lush and huge on either side of her sternum. Eve has no idea why she wants to put her mouth on them, but she really does.

She steps forward until she’s standing close enough to feel Gemma’s breath on her. It’s sweet and fruity.

“Give me the wine,” says Eve, already wresting it from Gemma’s grasp. She swigs it inelegantly and, with wet lips, she kisses the other woman firmly on the mouth.

Kissing Gemma is unfamiliar. There’s no moustache or stubble, most notably. Her nose is much smaller than Niko’s, so their faces can press together more easily. She’s softer and more pliant, but also more enthusiastic. She kisses Eve like it’s something she’s been craving and might never be allowed again. Eve pulls her in until their chests touch, nipples brushing. Eve tugs at Gemma’s lower lip with her teeth, and the moan it elicits sends a shudder through her. It’s the total opposite of the take-it-or-leave-it sex she’s had with Niko for the past decade.

“You look _so_ good together,” Villanelle says from nearby. Eve turns to find her in only her bra and underpants. Both items are flatteringly cut crème lace, simple but luxe.

“Are those _Agent Provocateur_?” Gemma asks admiringly.

“No,” Villanelle responds, leaving it at that. She looks intently at Eve. “So, do I get a kiss too?”

Eve should feel frozen in place, teetering on the edge of a precipice the way she had in Paris, when she lay down in the assassin’s bed with a knife ready in her hand. Instead, it doesn’t even feel like a decision. She lets Villanelle approach and, once she’s within reach, tilts her chin to connect their mouths. It’s nearly chaste, just the cushioned press of soft lips against each other.

Villanelle draws back just an inch, just far enough to meet Eve’s eyes, and says, “thank you,” like Eve has given her the most precious and bewildering of gifts.

Eve wraps her hand around the back of Villanelle’s neck and shoves back into her mouth, tongue and teeth exploring immediately. Villanelle slides right into action, opening her mouth and working her way around Eve’s own with obvious expertise. If Gemma kissed to savour, Villanelle kisses to ruin. Strong hands clutch at Eve’s sides—holding her body in place as Villanelle tries to envelop her. When Eve feels like she mightn’t actually be able to stand up on her own, she pushes on Villanelle’s shoulders and steps away, catching her breath.

“You said you had a vibrator?” she says, as levelly as she can.

“Two, actually,” Villanelle licks her lips, then grins. “And also a strap.”

  * 6



“Fuck her harder,” Eve commands. She’s standing by the edge of the bed watching Villanelle giving it to Gemma, like a swimming coach by the poolside. “She can take more, look at her.”

Villanelle’s determined to do as Eve says, so she throws her hips forward more aggressively. Each thrust smacks against Gemma’s arse as the strap-on disappears into her. It’s a long one—longer than Villanelle herself prefers—but Gemma’s so fucking _hungry_ for it. She holds herself up with her palms against the bedhead, pushing back onto Villanelle’s dick like she’ll die if the friction stops.

Gemma whines like she’s trying to hold it in. Villanelle is usually a bit irritated by overly loud sexual partners, but the revelation that Eve gets _right_ off on the vocalisations has given her a new perspective.

She breathes more heavily that strictly necessary, grunting as she slams a moan out of Gemma. Eve would be suspicious if she actively faked it, and she’s too good at controlling herself to react involuntarily—but it feels good to let something slip through her filter and out into the air. Eve responds to each vocalisation like it’s a physical touch, groping her own tits or combing fingers through that incredible hair.

“I’m— soon—” Gemma chokes out. “Yes, _yes—_ ”

Villanelle doubles down, and soon Gemma’s legs are giving way. She nearly _sobs_ through her orgasm. Villanelle slows, sliding the silicone cock in deep and grinding until Gemma finally tells her it’s too much.

She turns to Eve: “Was that good?”

Eve nods and crouches to explore the pockets of Villanelle’s suitcase—searching for her other toys, no doubt.

“What now, Fuck Commander?” she asks, wriggling in anticipation—

—because Eve has found the _cuffs_.

“Lie down.”

Slowly, Villanelle rolls over onto the side of the bed not occupied by Gemma. She lies back, wet strap still curving up from her crotch. She spreads her arms and her legs, a picture of leisurely temptation.

Eve rounds the bed, climbs on and straddles Villanelle without preamble—above the strap, legs pressing across her ribs. Villanelle watches the stretch and tense of Eve’s abdominals as she leans forward and presses Villanelle’s hands into the pillow above her head. The leather of the cuffs is cool and stiff against the soft skin of her wrists as Eve pulls the restraints tight—and then just a touch tighter.

Villanelle looks up at her irresistibly—

—and yet somehow Eve is able to resist. She’s not unaffected (that much is obvious from the warm wetness that rubs across Villanelle’s stomach) but it doesn’t stop her leaving Villanelle cuffed on the bed and returning to her suitcase.

“There’s a power point over there, right?” she asks calmly.

Villanelle squirms. “Just unplug the lamp.” The ceiling light is on anyway. “Hurry up, Eve, _please_.”

Eve takes her sweet time. She watches Villanelle carefully as she plugs the magic wand into the wall. Nobody makes Villanelle desperate like this in bed. Usually nobody gets the chance, because Villanelle holds the reins of each encounter in an iron fist—and yet here she is pouting and whining as the insides of her thighs grow stickier and stickier.

“Can you take that off, please,” Eve asks, moving to pull at the black harness holding Villanelle’s dick in place.

Villanelle cooperates, because Eve is holding the vibrator, thumb poised over the switch.

When the strap is off the vibrator comes on, buzzing loudly. Villanelle feels Gemma shifting behind her, perhaps sitting up to watch. She doesn’t check, though; Eve’s eyes are heavy-lidded and dark, impossible to look away from.

The buzz escalates as Eve lowers the wand to hover above Villanelle’s mons, still just standing by the bedside like she’s a surgeon about to operate. She doesn’t hesitate when she pushes the head directly against her clit. Villanelle bucks. She’s wet and swollen and sensitive already, and the harsh sensation is so, so much. Eve’s other hand holds her down by the hip.

There’s no reprieve from the buzzing. Eve circles her clit with the magic wand, varying the pressure, but the stimulation winds Villanelle’s muscles tighter and tighter until she’s screwing her eyes shut and pulling uselessly at the handcuffs in her efforts to bear it. The first orgasm is ripped out of her, a savage clenching that’s more pain than pleasure. Her core is so tight she can barely breathe, heels digging into the sheets, legs shaking like she’s just scaled a mountain.

Eve continues as if oblivious to the climax. The initial snap of release fades, but the tension doesn’t. It consumes her like static, as she realises this wasn’t the peak but the plateau. She feels herself flutter and squeeze every few moments, but it never satisfies.

“Eve,” she whines. “This is worse than when you stabbed me.”

Eve trails a hand over Villanelle’s stomach to the scar, tracing it proprietarily, and the next spasm hits deep enough that she might consider it a second orgasm.

Her eyes fly open and she’s staring, _gaping_ up at Eve’s face—which looks down on her fascinated instead of horrified, as it had done in Villanelle’s bed in Paris.

“ _Eve._ It’s so much.”

Eve shifts the wand away from her clit for just a moment, and Villanelle heaves a breath in, loosens her muscles before the unrelenting vibration returns.

“What do you want?” Eve asks.

“ _You_ ,” Villanelle gasps. Too vague. She tries again: “Your hand inside me. I want you to touch me, not just the— _ah!—_ the toy. Fuck, Eve.”

Eve switches the wand into her left hand, keeping it in position, then stretches the fingers of her right hand as if seeing them for the first time. Eve has beautiful hands: purposeful, cautious, reckless, disastrous. Villanelle wants them to make her come _properly_ —an orgasm that’s like a supernova, that cuts right to the core of her and makes her feel like she’s collapsing in on herself.

Eve runs her hand along Villanelle’s inner thigh, and the buzzing becomes background noise. Eve is merciful this time, fingertips taking a direct route to Villanelle’s folds. Two fingers rub along the edges of her labia and then down the centre, sliding through the pooling arousal there. She touches Villanelle’s opening almost reverently, circling around it to acquaint herself before diving in with both fingers.

Villanelle can’t even help it: she moans.

Eve hums contentedly above her. “The _sounds_ you make,” she says, voice hitching like Villanelle’s the one destroying _her_.

Villanelle grants passage to the next cry that rises up in her throat, and releases some of the strain in her abs in the form of a long, low groan.

Eve’s hand moves faster, fingers scissoring apart until a third is sneaking in alongside them, stretching Villanelle deliciously.

“I want more,” she pants. “Please, Eve, I want everything.”

“Everything?” asks Eve.

Villanelle nods, tosses her head back at the intrusion of Eve’s pinkie finger.

“More than this?”

Water drips from the corners of her eyes as she squeezes them shut. “Everything,” she repeats. “Just—wait a moment, I’ll be ready for it soon.”

Villanelle’s body feels wide open. Burning and sweaty and sore, as the thrusts of Eve’s fingers turn to gentler twists and crooks. Any more and she’ll have to let go; to surrender all control over her body, the transcendent terror she’s seen in so many faces writ large across her own.

“Do it now,” she begs—

—and with a careful flick of her thumb Eve gives her all of it, taking everything in return.

  * 7



Gemma wakes with the smothering heat of two stage five clingers wrapped around her. She’s a fan of the lazy morning snuggle, but her mouth is dry and she badly needs to pee. When she tries to shake Villanelle’s hand from around her upper arm its grip only tightens.

Staring at the ceiling, Gemma tries to figure out how many drinks she had last night. _Too many_ is as precise an answer as she can provide—there was the vodka and peach schnapps of the cocktails, then the red wine, followed by the scotch from the hotel room’s minibar, and even some of Eve’s straight gin.

Christ, she might need to vomit as well.

Elbowing Villanelle’s side proves effective. She stirs, opens her eyes for a moment and then rolls off Gemma.

“Good morning.” Her voice is husky with sleep and sexy as hell, and for the first time ever Gemma feels hungover and horny at the same time. She takes the liberty of groping Villanelle’s exposed chest a bit as she makes her way out of bed towards the bathroom.

Once she’s relieved herself, Gemma takes in her reflection in the mirror. Her hair’s a mess. Her smudged makeup has gone cakey on her skin. There’s a sizeable, tell-tale bruise near her left shoulder; she can see the marks of Villanelle’s individual teeth in it.

There’s also a satisfied gleam in her eyes that’s new.

She runs the tap hot and rinses her face as thoroughly as possible, though she still streaks tan and black all over the spare towel she grabs to dry off. There’s a plastic-wrapped toothbrush on the counter which she tears open and uses to scrub the sourness from her mouth.

Both Eve and Villanelle are awake when she returns. Gemma suspects this is mainly due to Villanelle poking the other woman in the side. Villanelle has a cheerful expression on her face, and a room service menu in her other hand.

“Oh god,” groans Eve.

“Some food will make you feel better,” Villanelle tells her.

“Death would make me feel better,” Eve counters.

Gemma, remembering quite suddenly about Villanelle being _an assassin_ , shakes her head in alarm.

Villanelle cackles, and Eve buries her face in her pillow.

“How are you so chipper?” Gemma asks, the loud laughter like a series of ice picks through her skull. “Are you one of those arseholes who don’t get hangovers?”

“I have immunity to many common poisons, including alcohol. Part of my training.”

“Really?” Eve turns her head again, curiosity overwhelming the pain. “Cool. But also fuck you for that.”

There’s a beat, before Villanelle cracks up again. “I am kidding. I just didn’t drink as much as you two. But I _do_ know one very good cure for a hangover.”

Gemma hops back on the bed, situating herself back between Villanelle and Eve. “What is it?” she asks. “My gran always swore by—”

Villanelle’s arms are on her at once, tipping her onto her back. Gemma looks up at Villanelle, who looms over her with a wolfish grin and then dips her head.

“Oh,” Gemma breathes. “Yes, I think that would be—fine.”

“Just fine?” Villanelle plays offended, pushing her leg in between Gemma’s and grinding upwards. “I am _very_ good at what I do.”

“Oh my god,” Eve’s voice interrupts, muffled by the pillow. “Not right now, please. Right now is not even the time for consciousness.”

 _Oops_ , Villanelle’s scolded expression says. She climbs back off Gemma and they both turn their attention to Eve, who really does appear to be suffering.

“I’ll get you some water,” Gemma declares, and takes the mug from the tea kit over to the bathroom sink.

“Don’t worry, we’ll take care of you,” she hears Villanelle assure Eve. As the cup fills with water, she watches the tenderness of Villanelle’s hands through Eve’s hair. A pang of something shoots through her, but it isn’t the envy she’d have felt a week ago watching a scene like this.

“That all really happened, huh?” Eve asks weakly. “I don’t think I can pretend it didn’t.”

“Do you regret it? I mean, I thought it was pretty good—right?” Villanelle turns to Gemma, taking the mug and passing it to Eve, who’s now sitting just enough to safely take a sip.

“I thought so. It was the best sex of my life, actually,” Gemma offers—and _that’s_ the twisting feeling in her gut. _Hope_. “I could definitely do more of… all that.”

Eve nods slowly, like she understands. “Okay,” she says. “Okay. Yeah. I think it’s going to be that way for me too. But let’s get that room service first, then we’ll talk.”

“Talk,” Villanelle beams. “Yes. We can also do that.”

**Author's Note:**

> Sin with me on twitter @hhhenrymercury


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